


they don't see you (like i do)

by openmouthwideeye



Series: West Eros High [24]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ways a cotillion ball can end:</p><p>1. With a bang<br/>2. With a whimper<br/>3. With fire<br/>4. With ice</p>
            </blockquote>





	they don't see you (like i do)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is it. The end of West Eros High (epilogue notwithstanding). I sincerely hope it doesn't disappoint!
> 
> The title is from "Darling, I Do" by Landon Pigg & Lucy Schwartz. The (super lame) summary is a combination of T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men" and-as every ASOIAF fan knows-"Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost.
> 
> *Dedicated to **goldstraw** , who inspired this fic (y'know, back when this was going to be a oneshot) with the prompt: "Brienne having a girly conversation with the rest of the westeros girls about boys, make-up, school, boys..." ;D

The party ebbed and flowed around her, a meld of muted shades and tempered laughter, but Brienne couldn’t grasp the tangible sights and sounds of cotillion. She knew nothing beyond the scrape of skin on her spine, the pressing heat invading the pocket of air she’d claimed as hers.

Hot breath puffed at her shoulder—the suggestion of a chuckle, teasing hair at her nape before snaking up to her ear. “Maybe next time you’ll show a little leg.”

Her muscles jerked, a short thrust from her shoulder to her arm as her brain scrambled to catch up. The boy danced away, reflexes honed by long years of contact sports, but her elbow grazed fabric and flesh, an impact that resonated dully in her bones.

A stifled grunt pulled her around. She watched Jaime clap both hands to his smarting ribs, fixing her with an exaggerated grimace. “Shit, Brienne. Good to know you missed me.”

“Jaime?” She gaped at him, unable to wrap her mind around the fact that he was _right there_. “Why would you think that was a good idea?” she demanded, fighting folds of fabric to fumble to her feet.

“Excuse me for trying to surprise you,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes as she pried away his arms to feel the damage. Her fingers tucked into his palm, drawing his right hand further away.

Awareness stilled her movements. Her fingers clenched, reveling in the soft pad of his hand under hers. Her eyes skated past the tangle of tan and freckled fingers to assess the loose sleeve of his suit obscuring a pale, wasted wrist. Bloodless, where his cast had always seemed another wound. The sight of it was a double-edged blade, catching up her heart in a high arc and peppering it with tiny lacerations.

She glanced up at him, brows furrowed.

“Dad insisted I put my best arm forward.” He shrugged, mouth twisting wryly. “Not that it did him any good.

“You missed your interview?”

Jaime cocked his head, dragging her closer with their linked fingers. “I _aced_ my interview.” He tugged her into an embrace, nudging her arms around him, then wriggled free to skim fingertips down her knuckles, wrists, flexors. Goosebumps erupted on her arms, racing to outstrip his wandering hands. “I skipped dad’s football meeting.” His right hand moved jerkily on the satin at her hips, untamed by the rigid control tensing his forearm.

A pang went through her. Brienne fisted her hands in his suit jacket, pressing closer. There was nothing more she could do, so she simply said, “Thanks.”

His hands settled, quiet for a moment before restlessness stirred him. “So are you gonna dance with me or what?”

The sounds of composed merriment came rushing in around her, swept on a wave of winds and strings. Her arms slacked, catching loosely at his waist as she pulled away in disbelief.

“You expect me to _dance_ again?”

Her boyfriend hid his grin, goading. “I came all this way.”

“No,” she said flatly. From the way his lips twitched, he’d seen it coming.

“C’mon,” Jaime cajoled, “prove the naysayers wrong.”

His warm green eyes beckoned her to the ballroom floor, but Brienne stayed rooted firm. “I’m done with naysayers.” She set her jaw and Jaime laughed, gold twinkling in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he agreed easily, “Not exactly how I want to spend my night.” He winked.

Brienne shook her head, stoically pretending he hadn’t sent her stomach fluttering. She ducked back into his arms, praying her cheeks hadn’t given her away, and sank into him as he pulled her closer. Her heart thudded in tandem with his, contented rhythms echoing unhurriedly through their bones.

“Your friend Sam looks like an oompa loompa.”

She turned to look. Sam had caused a minor scandal on the dance floor by getting tangled in his date’s train. Brienne watched him wobble a few steps back, apologizing profusely. Jill hiked her dress to her knees, wrapping it around her wrist as Sam showered her with plaintive gestures.

“He’s happy,” Brienne defended.

“Happy?” Jaime shook his head. “I didn’t know they _made_ orange and green ties.”

The country girl grabbed Sam’s shoulder, pushing him through half a box step until he got the hint to lead.

“Jill doesn’t seem to mind. Besides,” Brienne rolled her eyes, gesturing emphatically at his tie, “at least 85% of your wardrobe is red or gold.”

“Red and gold are classy,” Jaime replied, unconcerned.

“You know Kingswood colors are gold and white, right?”

He didn’t even pause. “I’ve got gold, you cover white.”

Air stuttered in her lungs. Brienne swallowed slowly, pulling back to read his expression. He might be talking about the color of her dress and his tie.

He might.

Jaime mirrored her, carefully unconcerned. Her composure wavered beneath the unformed suggestion that refracted from his lips to his eyes. _Kingswood. College life. You and me, two years down the line._

“Their hockey jerseys are gold, though,” she hazarded, shooting for offhand and missing the net.

If she thought he’d be offended, that she’d misread his intentions or drudged up a cruel reminder of his future outside of organized sports, she’d thought wrong. A grin sparked to life on his handsome features, banishing the shadow of her doubt.

Jaime leaned closer, eyes alight with wicked mischief. “I am going to look _so good_ in your jersey.”

Her teeth found her bottom lip, tugging reality into her flesh as her tongue snuck past to sooth each score. His gaze found her mouth, that perfect jaw slacking as he licked his lips in mimicry of hers. Brienne’s stomach dropped; a heady feeling rose to fill the empty space.

Ice clinked on the table, shifting as it melted. The settling sounds of the soupy centerpiece gave way to violins and polite conversation, swirling half frozen around her. Voices that belonged to Mel and Taena and Olenna Tyrell. Mrs. Lannister. Her dad.

Brienne cleared her throat and scooted away, ruing the splotchy pink affection decorating her cheeks.

Indulgence quirked Jaime’s cheekbones, but it didn’t quite scrub out his chagrin.

“So who was more obnoxious,” he asked, shaking off the vestige of intoxication by pulling her toward the snack table, “Sansa or Margaery?”

“Tyrion.” She mustered a glare and tossed it arbitrarily in the direction she’d last seen him.

Jaime hummed amusement at her sour expression. Tenderness swept from her toes to her gut, scrabbling at the desire she’d scarcely buried. She dug in her displeasure, wondering how she could love Jaime Lannister so much when he was laughing at her.

“To be fair that one’s on me.” He shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “You’d think I would have caught some of the fun.”

Brienne glanced around. Couples still danced on the large polished floor while the Junior League ladies made the rounds, but numbers were dwindling. She caught sight of Arya sneaking into the parking lot after Jon and Ygritte, hunting for a ride. When she scanned the room again, she realized her dad and his girlfriend had called an early night, too.

“It wasn’t that fun,” she mumbled. She could still feel the hot, hazy spotlight, calloused hands she didn’t know were Jaime’s, and all the while the word _whore_ punctured intimate corners of her soul.

He captured her hand and anchored her, pretending to watch the crowd ebb and flow while she navigated the harsh bearing of the afternoon.

Brienne drifted closer to the buffet, cataloguing the scattered remains of delicate cakes and finger food. A sense of nakedness pervaded her thoughts, saltwater beading sluggishly on her skin. Her mouth swelled with the same reticence she’d felt talking to Renly, but she grit her teeth and pushed through it. “It sucked.”

Jaime grimaced, the muscles in his hand contorting with his features. “I figured. Cersei’s been a peach today.”

“Can we not talk about it?” she muttered, slipping from his grip. She wanted to tell him about the dress almost as much as she didn’t, but the wound still bled to the touch.

Jaime studied her. It took more energy than it should have to meet his eyes, but she did. His jaw clenched; a muscle twitched in his cheek. “Yeah,” he conceded. “We can do that.”

He brushed her arm, soothing her almost without realizing, and then dug through the mess of cutlery to root out a plastic plate etched with roses. Brienne cleared her throat, rubbing her palms in agitated circles on her dress to shake off her excess tension.

“Didn’t you eat?” she wondered, watching him pilfer an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray and stuff it in his mouth.

“In coach?” Jaime scoffed, loading his plate with several substantial slices of cake. “No thank you.”

She blinked, all thoughts of stage lights and dressing rooms fleeing her mind. “You bought a plane ticket?”

He tossed a handful of grapes haphazardly onto his plate. “What, you think my dad offered up his pilot so I could ‘shame the Lannister name’?”

Brienne clenched her jaw, worked it free. She snatched up his weak right hand and laced her fingers through his, the newfound implication of his arrival tense in her ligaments. “You’re the same person with a cast, or a scholarship, or a date to cotillion.” She caught his eyes fiercely, keeping her voice low. “No better or worse.”

 _You’re better than him_ , she wanted to say. _Better than your last name._ She didn’t think he wanted to hear it, though, so she tucked it away with other declarations that were best left for private moments.

Arya’s caterer friend arrived to clear the leftovers. Jaime shot him an annoyed look, and the boy grunted, disappearing with a barely muffled comment about Lannisters and superiority complexes.

“Stop shaming the family name, Jaime,” Brienne joked weakly, tightening her grip on his hand.

Against all odds, her boyfriend cracked a smile. “But I’ve had so much practice.” He balanced his plate on their joined hands to pinch a chunk of cake, shoving the dessert into his mouth with relish. Brienne tried not to laugh as he licked his fingers. She knocked his shoe with hers before reaching up to dust crumbs from his chin.

He tried to catch her fingers with his teeth, and Brienne evaded him, colliding sharply with the table. Jaime’s plate tumbled from its precarious perch. He danced her out of the way just in time to save her pristine gown from a nasty chocolate stain.

“That would have been your fault,” she informed him plainly, valiantly stifling her exasperated laughter. She shot him an ineffective glare and stooped, shoving the cake back on the plate as she smeared the ganache with a napkin.

 _There are people to do that_ , Jaime articulated with a roll of his eyes.

Her unimpressed look told him he was being rude, but she flattened the napkin on top of the sticky mess and let him pull her to her feet.

“Are you _trying_ to get rid of me? Sansa would set the hounds on me if I ruined your ball gown.” Jaime faked a shiver.

The shiver that ran down Brienne’s spine was all too real. She took a deep breath, drawing resolve from some deep inner well to bolster her courage. “I’m already on dress number two.”

His brows furrowed, caught between curiosity and concern. “What— ”

“Incoming,” Tyrion interrupted before Jaime press the subject. The youngest Lannister pushed between them, rotating his brother with a persistent hand on the small of his back. “3 o’clock.”

Brienne saw Jaime’s expression crumble into a hard line of grit and determination. She turned toward the door, her hard-won bucket of courage splashing back into the depths.

Cersei Lannister stalked toward them, for once in her life completely underdressed.

“Fuck.”

Jaime’s curse whipped around Brienne like the start of a maelstrom, tugging insistently at her clothes as sea sprayed around them. She grabbed her mental rope and hauled, hand over hand, until her store of social courage spilled fresh and clear at her feet.

She should have known that Jaime’s family wouldn’t take his flight lying down.

Cersei yanked at the bottom of her short, rumpled skirt, meeting Brienne’s eyes as she blustered closer. Relentless. Vindictive. Frankly disbelieving, even now.

Brienne braced herself as the beautiful girl advanced, a bit of steel locking into her spine with each unheard _clack_ of the cheerleader’s heels. Jaime swore under his breath, cursing his stepsister and his father and his own stupidity as he set his feet beside Brienne, a subtle fighter’s stance. Tyrion took point in front, the first line of defense: a wall of words and will.

Cersei veered. The trio turned, feet already in motion, to shadow her resolute march toward the women clustered around Olenna Tyrell. They reached the cotillion president half a step behind her.

The pretty former debutante smoothed her skirt and shot Jaime an acerbic look.

“Ms. Tyrell,” she began in clipped tones, “I would like to speak with you about a– “ she paused, eying Brienne balefully, from her scuffed flats to the unkempt bun a good foot above Cersei’s head, “ –delicate matter.”

“Don’t,” Jaime warned, but she only jerked her shoulders straighter to add,  “It’s urgent.”

“By all means,” Olenna agreed, waving away a woman trying to finish their conversation. “I imagine there’s no better time for a private discussion than in the middle of an annual ball.”

“Don’t make this harder,” Tyrion advised his sister under his breath. He may as well not have spoken.

“Brienne Tarth was unfit to debut,” Cersei announced. “The West Eros Country Club and National Cotillion League shouldn’t bear the stigma of presenting a – creature – like her. Strike her name from the records. I insist she leave immediately.”

Brienne’s stomach clenched, roiling with angry indignity. To make it through miserable months of cotillion practice, only to lose her stupid certificate to slander once half the guests had left . . .

“Oh?” the old woman mused. “And what has she done that’s so ghastly?”

“Existed,” Tyrion interjected drolly, earning a reprimanding gaze from one of the Junior League women Cersei had interrupted.

“Outclassed her.” Jaime’s words were rough with the effort of smoothing his ire.

Cersei’s jaw worked in irritation, but she didn’t deem either of her brothers worthy of her attention.

“Spit it out, dear,” Ms. Tyrell prodded. “I have important business to attend.”

“Unladylike conduct and distasteful deportment.”

“Indeed?”

“Catelyn and Joanna think very highly of Miss Tarth,” one of the other women interjected.

“Maybe they’d change their minds,” Cersei began, vitriol spoiling her attempt at primness, “if they’d heard the sordid details of her liaisons with Kyle Hunt and– and– ” she cast about, snatched a familiar name from the crowd, “Robb Stark.”

“ _Robb_?” Brienne gaped, flummoxed.

“Has Oz turned tail on you?” Jaime grunted. “You never could— ”

Olenna held up a hand, stalling the brewing row. Jaime ground his teeth, years of his mother’s instruction reining in his tongue. Ms. Tyrell’s weathered gaze traveled from one Lannister to the next, dropping to Tyrion in a brief show of commiseration. She assessed Brienne perfunctorily before leveling an unimpressed look at all four teenagers.

“If that girl had so much as glimpsed the kind of things that have assailed these old ears, she wouldn’t blush like a schoolgirl whenever that boy touches her.”

Cersei’s breath hissed between her teeth. The cotillion president eyed the pretty blonde candidly. “When was the last time _you_ blushed, girl?”

If Brienne were describing anyone else, she would have said the other girl _squawked_.

“I have always carried myself with the utmost— ”

“Yes, yes,” Olenna interrupted, waving a hand to disperse Cersei’s protestations. “You’re a role model and an inspiration. The question is: for whom?”

Cersei’s chin rose imperceptibly.

Brienne felt a sense of foreboding, like a shift in the air just before a fight broke out on the ice. But this time the ref had a stick of her own, and it looked more like a cricket bat.

Olenna tutted. “My dear, I’m afraid you are underdressed for this occasion.” She motioned one of the cotillion coaches, who furrowed a brow and retrieved a shopping bag from the corner.

Cersei fisted a hand in her skirt, preventing her fingers from telegraphing her discomfort.

Olenna Tyrell reached into the bag, freeing long, crisp folds of white taffeta. She shook the material, unraveling an elegant cascade of silk, and draped the voluminous gown across Cersei’s lithe form. The needlework sank into her chest like a dull, deep bloodstain, but the ruby glint of her jewelry reflected the threads into a thousand shimmering strands.

_Whore. Whore. Whore._

“Hmm,” Olenna pressed her lips, speculative. “I’ve never been a fan of such language. Dreadfully crass for a debutante, wouldn’t you agree?”

She turned to Brienne, cocking a brow. Brienne stared, dumbfounded. Her dismay reflected and distorted in Cersei’s growing horror.

“Well,” the woman shrugged, turning back to the older girl. “If the shoe fits.”

“Cersei Lannister,” Tyrion considered each syllable of his sister’s name, sounding almost as fascinated as he was disturbed, “What would your mother think?”

Jaime’s gaze tangled in the bitter crimson tinder, catching flame and roaring to a fierce green blaze. Cersei opened her mouth and choked on a hiss, the words suffocated on her tongue.

“No.” Defiance caught in Brienne’s parched throat, rasping free like a dying breath. She pushed in front of Jaime, in front of Tyrion, in front of the handful of appalled women to wedge herself between the cotillion president and the pretty blonde cheerleader hell-bent on making her life miserable.

The towering deb snatched the loathsome gown from Ms. Tyrell, well past caring about decorum. Silk rustled secrets against her hand as Brienne balled the fabric in her fist. Her fingers dug until the weave strained against her fingernails.

“No,” she asserted, more forcefully than before, “that’s not okay. It’s not _right_.”

Ms. Tyrell appraised her. Brienne stared back, heart throbbing as it pushed bitter, bloody threads through her veins.

“Brienne,” Tyrion began slowly, “that’s your gown. Cersei obviously intended—”

“She did more than _intend_ ,” Jaime growled, patchwork pieces coming together. “She—” He scanned both dresses, bit off a curse when he couldn’t pick out the strands weaving them together.

Brienne arranged her jaw into an offensive line. “Hurting her doesn’t fix this.”

Her boyfriend’s features tensed in mutinous defense. “It sets the play in motion.”

Cersei’s eyes flashed, raking sharply cut emeralds across Brienne’s face. “If you think this changes—”

“I don’t.” Brienne shook her head, a tendril of pity pushing through the leaden ire in her gut. “I don’t care. No one deserves that.”

Cersei stared at her, flames guttering and flaring back to life, skittering sparks across the smooth surface of her gemstone eyes.

“Brienne.” Her name sounded low and dangerous, jealously guarded on Jaime’s tongue.

Intrigue touched Ms. Tyrell’s clear brown eyes, but it was clear her colleagues took issue with the unspoken missive to stand back. They shifted on their heels, silently observing those close enough to overhear.

Brienne dropped the dress to the ground in a heap. It felt good to grind it under her shoes, falling back and smiling wanly in the faint hope of tempering Jaime’s frustration. If anything, the flame in his eyes burned hotter. Brienne recognized the ember burying his golden glint in cool, greedy green. She’d felt its mirror, icy and blue, when the Bloody Marys had attacked Jaime, shattering his pride and his future in one fell swoop.

But whatever Cersei did now, it didn’t matter. She’d exhausted her plays, and Brienne was still standing.

She shook her head, fingers climbing his suit jacket like each _tap_ was a thread, binding him to her. “You’ll only make things worse,” she said in an undertone. Jaime tensed. She let her hand drop, dragging down his sleeve to fiddle with the seam at his atrophied wrist. “Please. Don’t.”

He turned to look at her, breathing hard through his nose. She caught his eyes and pulled him back, one short, angry exhalation at a time. When he shook his head and refused to look at her, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her hand slid down into his, warm and welcome. He clung to her like that grip kept the world at bay.

Tyrion murmured something to his sister, a wry smile idle in his eyes, while the Junior League ladies muttered amongst themselves. Brienne let the sounds wash over her. She lingered in the heavy thump of her heartbeat, the speeding hum of Jaime’s pulse on her hand.

“Grandmother.” Margaery appeared in a swirl of white, a cordial smile affixed to her lips. She bent to catch her grandmother’s arm, affecting a laugh, “Gran, you’re causing a scene.”

“Oh, let them fuss,” Ms. Tyrell said mildly, patting her granddaughter’s hand. “They make mountains of molehills; might as well give them a show.”

Margaery shook her head, fighting a sigh. She turned to Cersei, a warning glint nestling in her dimples as she smiled civilly at her cheer captain. “Cersei, sweetie, I think it’s best if you leave now.”

Cersei tossed her hair, feet apart like they were at practice. “This is _my_ event. A committee of respected Junior League members chose _me_ to—”

Olenna rolled her eyes, gesturing over a server with a plate of cheese Danishes. “Do as my granddaughter says,” she instructed, “before you lose another title.” She plucked a Danish with short, wrinkled fingers.

Cersei stiffened, staring at the cotillion president like she wanted to slap her.

“Your parents are waiting by the valet stand,” Margaery added helpfully.

Somehow, Cersei uncovered a scrap of cotillion training beneath the wreckage of the night. “Have a pleasant evening,” she articulated through clenched teeth, jerking her head as if to nod at the gathered women, then snatching the gesture away. She whirled, stalking past a row of startled onlookers.

Ms. Tyrell popped her dessert into her mouth, chewing idly as the cotillion coaches goggled. “Well don’t stand there gaping like fish,” Margaery’s grandmother sniffed. “It’s unbecoming.”

The group of women clustered, low murmurs of intense conversation drifting past the barrier of their bodies.

Jaime leaned close. “You were right,” he muttered in Brienne’s ear, “fun sucks. Wanna ditch before she finds reinforcements?”

She grimaced. She couldn’t quite imagine the war they might have unleashed if all five of the Lannisters had taken part in their reckoning.

Brienne nodded mutely. Turning, she offered Tyrion a grateful smile. He made a hurrying gesture in return, hastening her out of the ballroom. As they eased away from the gathering crowd, Jaime exchanged a loaded look with his brother. The youngest Lannister rolled his eyes, longsuffering, and picked a reluctant path through the wake of his sister’s devastation.

Summer threatened the world outside the country club, fogging the parking lot with heat and humidity. To Brienne it felt like the seaside, full of salt and freedom. She wondered if her long white dress or his weak right wrist quelled Jaime’s tongue when she slid into the driver’s seat of her Toyota. The A/C stuttered to life with the engine. She didn’t need to look at him to know where she was headed.

The arena sat like a specter, dark and empty, when she pulled into the reserved space by the door. Jaime dug through the matted roots of the second shrub over, coming up with a dirt-encrusted captain’s key. Peace and darkness ushered them into the rink, a familiar cavern of cool, calm air laced with the fresh scent of ice.

Jaime flexed his right hand, grinning as he snatched up a hockey stick and twirled it experimentally. His control fumbled, fingers only bending partway, but even as Jaime muttered vague cures his features were alight with satisfaction.

The stress of the day evaporating into mist, ephemeral beside the concrete under her feet, the white line of Jaime’s smile. Her dress swished around her ankles, and Brienne shivered as the stadium’s icy breath caressed her bare, freckled shoulders.

“What, you’re not playing in that?” Jaime called as she disappeared into the locker room. “Then what was the point of all that cotillion nonsense?”

It wasn’t until she was digging through her stuff that Brienne realized she’d left her practice jersey at home. She glanced around the room, frowning at the tangle of tiny, dirty clothes in Arya’s open locker. The rest of the lockers hadn’t seen use in years.

The door rattled behind her, a subtle warning before the door swung open. Brienne jumped, swiveling to face her boyfriend’s innocent expression. “Damn. Dressed and everything.”

She crossed her arms, shifting uncomfortably as the pins anchoring her bodice dug greedily into her skin. She had considered asking for his help—chewed her lip raw as they walked through the hockey rink and she’d remembered all the tricks Mrs. Stark had employed to get her into the thing—but his sudden, insatiable smile quashed that inquiry. She could wrestle with the stupid gown herself.

“Do you have a key to coach’s office?” she asked instead. “I need a spare pair of warm-ups.”

Jaime sighed regretfully. Brienne wondered if he’d read her thoughts on her face or if he was just teasing her. He tossed her a handful of fabric she hadn’t noticed, wrapped around his fist like boxing tape. She caught it on instinct, turning it over in her hands. A pair of sweats, _West Eros High_ emblazoned on the leg . . . and Jaime’s practice jersey, _Captain Lannister_ sprawled across the back in bold, red ink.

“You’re a shoe-in anyway,” he shrugged, not quite blasé as her fingers moved across the jersey’s worn lettering. “Might as well get used to it.”

Captain. She could do it, she realized. She _wanted_ to.

Brienne swallowed the lump in her throat and clutched his clothes to her chest, pretending to block the chill. Jaime lingered, feigning an interest in the fit of the sweats. When she finally shoved him bodily from the room, the world felt right again. Like cotillion and Cersei and Kyle had never happened, and Brienne would never need to be more than she was: skates, sweat and all.

When she hit the ice, she was grinning.

“Hey Brienne,” Jaime called, zipping over to catch her around the waist and spin her around.

If she’d been on solid ground she would have sprawled, but her muscles knew the ice and compensated. A burst of laughter escaped her, echoing across the ice and reverberating back to her long after her throat had muffled the sound. She wrapped her arms around his waist, worrying with half a mind about the strain on his arm as they spun slowly to a stop.

When her skates settled in a groove in the ice, Brienne felt lighter than the mist drifting over their feet. Her face glowed with the slap of cold air, the red flush of his body pressed against hers.

Jaime leaned in, warm, husky breath tickling her ear as he whispered, “Did I ever teach you how to rumba?”

She shook her head slowly, unable to speak past the sudden swelling in her throat.

He nuzzled her ear, spreading liquid warmth through her chest. Tingles erupted from her ribs, shooting through her veins as he trailed languid hands down her waist. His fingers spread, cupped up, the jersey billowing neatly over his wrists as the curve of his hand settled on the elastic of her sweatpants. She could feel his thumb, barely brushing the skin of her hip, an inadvertent caress moving featherlight between fabric and flesh.

Her heart thudded, a slow, aching rhythm she knew and feared as much as she anticipated.

Jaime gripped her hips, yanking them to his.

Brienne squeaked.

He laughed, loud and clear, belying the devilish glint lurking beneath his lashes.

Brienne clenched her teeth, praying her no-nonsense expression could make up for the heat that flamed her ears and dipped beneath the lightweight collar of her captain’s jersey.

“We’re playing hockey after,” she warned.

The lift of his brows assured her that she’d simply reiterated an inevitability.

“I’m a slow learner,” she challenged, knocking his boots with hers.

“Hasn’t turned me off yet.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, pulling his hands where she could see them and slipping into a proper stance. Anticipation fluttered her pulse, but she met his eyes squarely.

“Alright,” she said, “let’s dance.”

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal J/B kisses for everyone who stuck with me through this fic. I can't believe it's been 9 months since I started this beast! This beast that was going to be a oneshot, and then absolutely _no more_ than 10 chapters. LOL. Your feedback has meant so much to me. I'm sure I'd have given up long ago without your support. I am grateful for each and every one of you!
> 
> A huge virtual hug for Isy, who took the time to beta this on so many (often last minute) occasions. This fic would have been much more grammatically (and thematically) lacking without you!
> 
> Y'all can look for a slightly tidier version of this story to make its appearance as an actual legitimate chapter fic someday soon. Which will hopefully make it easier to read (because I selfishly refused to give up my comments once this thing got out of control, and so it spiraled into a 24 chapter series. *facepalm*).
> 
>  
> 
> _Please take a moment and leave a comment!_


End file.
